


'87

by viktoire



Category: N/A - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 02:36:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4504407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viktoire/pseuds/viktoire





	'87

September '87

“It's been a while.”

His voice alone is like fire to her skin and she hasn't even turned around to face him yet. The heat's already rushing to her face and she suddenly wishes she could disintegrate right there. But she takes a deep breath, meets his eyes.

_Showtime._

“That it has.” She smiles, sickly sweet and contrived and she knows it. How can she want to run away, hit him, and pull him to her all at once?

“How have you been?”

And just like absolute strangers, the game begins of trying to pretend there was never anything between them. Just like there's nothing there now.

“Great, just great. Finding good work and enjoying married life.” _Why the hell did she say that?_

“Good, I'm glad.” This time it's his turn to smile as if he means it. “Is he, uh—,” he pauses, trying to find adequate words for something he's wondered long before now. “Are you two happy?”

“Well, of course we're happy,” a laugh of feigned disbelief at his question added for effect, “what do you mean?”

“I mean, is he treating you right?”

The sentiment is blunt now. But what the hell does he care? He's been drinking and was never one for beating around the bush.

“Yes.” A simple response to shut him up and get him off her back. It doesn't matter if it's a little white lie.

“Oh.” He's quiet now. God help him, he wants to let it go. He really does. But that foolish pride just won't let it be. “So I guess that's why he's been mingling all night and leaving you in the corner by yourself? Seems a little neglectful to me.”

“Now that's the kettle calling the pot black, don't you think?”

The truth stings.

He looks away, nods in acceptance, “I deserved that...”

Round one goes to her, he'll admit. The facade fell so quickly, and now he's unsure of what to say. How does one politely forego propriety? Because he wants to ask her if Michael is better than he was, in all the ways that matter. If he's hurt her or made her promises and never delivered. She doesn't need any of that. Not again.

He takes the awkward silence as an opportunity to drink her in. A year later and she still looks as stunning in that damned dress as she did when he last saw her in it. And eventually, out of it...

**\- - - - -**

_“Now, I need your honest opinion.” Standing high on tiptoes, she reaches up into the closet and struggles for a box in the back, sending several pairs of heels crashing to the floor in the process._

_He sits on the bed, chuckling at her serious demeanor; she's awfully cute when she's trying to plan an outfit._

_“Drake, it's not funny! I have to find a dress for tomorrow night.”_

_“Baby, you'll look beautiful in anything.” He means it._

_Touched by what he says, she turns to look at him over her shoulder. “Any other time I'd appreciate that but honey, right now? Your incredibly subjective opinion is not helping me decide any quicker.”_

_He laughs again and stretches out across the bed, propping himself up on his arm to observe her._

_“Okayokayokay, this?” She stands at the mirror, holding a halter gown, deep burgundy, up to her body and briefly considers, cocking her head to the side, “orrrrr...this?” This time, it's sparkling gold and strapless._

_Suddenly he's behind her and nuzzling her neck, much to her now giggling protest, and grabbing at the hangers to fling both dresses onto a nearby chair. Turning her around, he grabs her bottom and pulls her close, stumbling as he tries to walk them backwards towards the bed._

_“How does nothing sound?” he growls into her neck, feeling the vibration of her fit of laughter._

_They fall onto the bed, the struggle for fashion now long forgotten for giggly kisses that very soon turn into something more. And three hours later when dusk falls and their stomachs growl, she playfully pushes him out of bed to throw on some clothes and go pick up some dinner._

_When he leans down for a quick kiss goodbye, he finally gives her her answer, whispering in her ear —_

_“Gold.”_

  **\- - - - -**

There's no laughter in the present. No playful banter between them, no carefree decisions to be made. No hours spent just making love. But even now, he wants her. Doesn't he always want what he can't have? Somehow even more so as her eyes shoot daggers at him, reliving the same memory in her mind.

“I need to get some air, excuse me,” she mutters, pushing past him.

He almost follows.

♢ ♢ ♢

She's not sure how long she's been out on the balcony and no one's bothered to look for her. It's a chilly night and she wishes she could face going back in there, but she just can't. Not yet. She needs to find a way to calm herself down.

Staring off into the distance, she notices how the lights flicker beautifully across the landscape of the city. She takes L.A. for granted, but right about now she yearns for the solitude of the ocean. Even the idea of that brings her mind racing back to him; does he still walk the shore at night the way they used to together? His cologne is still fresh to her senses, his eyes are still so clear in her mind. If he had even touched her in the slightest, she'd have gone crazy.

Damn it, he wasn't supposed to get under her skin like this again. She promised herself.

“Dee?”

Startled, she whips around, only to find him watching her from the door. He tentatively steps out into the night, shutting it behind him and muffling the sounds of the party inside.

“Are you alright?” One last drink and forty-five minutes later, he wants to apologize. “Look, I'm sorry for what I said. I didn't mean to insinuate or...” God, he's not sure what he's trying to say. All he knows is that he doesn't want her to be upset.

“I'm fine.” The stinging of her eyes tells a different story.

She can't bring herself to face him but she wants him to go back inside. It was easier to hate him when he wasn't right in front of her.

“Dee—“

“Stop it, I'm fine!” She can't stand to hear any shred of concern in his voice. He didn't care when she cried before, why should he care now?

Nothing was fairly divided when they broke it off. For him, there was a wife, a new family, and, though kept quietly to himself, immense regret. For her, there was salt in nearly forgotten wounds from lovers past. The return of her trusty 'me against the world' attitude she never thought she'd need again — that is, until she met Michael. She fell all over again and thought it would be picture perfect. Yet here she is, lonelier than she's ever been...

And frankly, much more vulnerable out on this balcony with him.

“I need to tell you something.” He's tempting her to give in and hear him out.

“No, no you don't.” She retreats to the corner of the balcony, desperately needing to not be so close to him.

This time, he does follow. And when she turns back around, she nearly bumps right into him. Almost chest to chest, the tension between them is palpable.

“I never meant to hurt you, you know that. I loved you, I still...“

Her heart stops.

“...I care very deeply for you. I want you to be happy. All the things I couldn't give you, I want you to have 'em all and—“

“Please, don't do this to me,” she whispers, hand splayed out in front of her as if for protection, the first tear making its way down her cheek now breaking any resolve she had left to stay strong. His finger under her chin forces her to look at him and she curses herself for being unable to look away.

“I'm sorry.”

It's the very first time he's said it. She always thought it'd make such a difference if she heard those little words from him now. It'd be a fraction of the closure she never got.

But it only hurts worse.

“Drake—“

And then he kisses her. It's convenient; he doesn't want to hear her pleas against him, she doesn't want to hear his apologies. The warmth of his lips and the taste of his mouth is so familiar and yet so dearly missed that her gut tightens at the sensation. Any rational thought leaves her as his tongue finds hers and brings her right back to the place she was a year ago. Loved and cherished and as wholly filled with love as another person could make her feel.

But this isn't a year ago and she knows it's not what it used to be but she'll take what she can get. It's easy getting caught up in the moment; it always was with them. A little whimper slips from her lips as he caresses her breast in his hand, forgetting that they're in public, just a glass door and curtain away from her husband and several of their colleagues. And then his hand's gently touching her face and he's mumbling a mantra of apologies against her neck, his voice low and sadder than she's heard it before. What's even sadder is that she believes him. The sheer idea that this is actually happening is making her dizzy.

“Stop,” she can barely breathe, “Drake, stop it.”

He pulls away, the pain in his eyes perhaps even more painful for her to simply see. _You gotta buck up, girl._

“You need to leave.”

“Dee, I didn't—“

“Now.” Her tone is serious and the tears are gone; she means it.

And like that, he's gone. _Ain't that his way_ , she muses bitterly.

♢


End file.
